gratitude

Cereal. Pasta. Beans. Crackers. Veggies. The groceries would appear from time to time on my doorstep.

This happened one summer on Cape Cod while I worked at a series of awful, low-wage jobs with my girlfriends: waitressing, pressing t-shirt emblems at a tourist shack on Route 6, and cleaning toilets at a sketchy hotel. It was a sour economy and I barely made enough money to pay rent or finish payments for a college semester in Kenya – my anticipated great escape from a life which seemed nothing but struggle.

The groceries were a blessing.

“There goes Mr. Q again!” I quipped when my friends gave me suspicious looks. Mr. Q would leave a brief note. Sometimes, there was some cash. He never knocked or stayed to say hello. I may have met him in person all but twice.

Mr. Q had been an acquaintance of my mother’s during the glamourous early 60s in New York City. She was a stewardess among other European gals arriving to give the American Dream a go. I guessed that Mr. Q had a crush on her that eventually became a long distance admiration. He’s dead now so I can’t ask him. My beautiful mother will deny any past romantic interests, so she’s no help on this matter. I never knew about Mr. Q until my first semester at college when a check for $50 arrived with a note: “For books ~ Mr. Q”.
The groceries appeared after I graduated and worked in more low-wage jobs in Boston. This time the goods were left outside of a depressing room I rented just shy of the landing strips at Logan airport. The trend continued when I could afford a “real” apartment with a friend in the North End overlooking the old Boston expressway. Ida, an Italian grandmother perched at the second floor window, kept watch over our comings and goings – and she took in my infrequent mail, including the occasional package from Mr. Q.

I can’t imagine my daughters launching into adult life as I did or even as my German mother did crossing the Atlantic on an ocean liner all by herself. I, too, had an early job at an airport and it was hardly glamorous. My first and last assignment as a marketing assistant was digging up information about the Cape Cod canals for a transportation speech to be given by the executive director. (That meant spending days in Boston Public Library’s card catalog room.)

For whatever reason, Mr. Q seemed to think that writing might be a good career for me. Mr. Q, it turned out, happened to be the owner of a small newspaper in a Boston neighborhood. When he learned I was taking a trip up to Montreal for a reason I can no longer remember, he called and suggested I write a travel story for the paper. I felt obligated. After all Mr. Q was a benefactor of sorts and I did not want to disappoint him. I scrabbled something together on the bus ride home and typed it up at work. I had assumed an editor would do some magic.

But no.

An endlessly long and uninteresting article appeared. I only knew this because Mr. Q clipped it and sent it in the mail. Looking back, I’m thankful the Internet didn’t exist. It was terribly written. But he was terribly kind.

I’m not sure why Mr. Q popped in my mind these last few days. I haven’t thought of him in ages. Then it occurred to me; I’m a writing a book. A first book. Somehow he knows this. He planted the seed that took a long time to germinate. That my book is about kindness is even more fitting. I’ve been scanning my past – a sort of “kindsight” of the lessons I was meant to learn to grow my soul. In those lonely years of starting out, I simply wanted encouragement from the people I loved the most. For whatever reason they couldn’t provide it and I don’t fault them for it. Yet, the odd Mr. Q gave a damn.

Mr. Q. Untouchable. Mysterious. Benevolent. Timely. Just like an angel.

* * *

If you have a story about kindness, as a giver, receiver or witness of a gesture or act of generosity, love or compassion, please do share. I’m collecting contributions for The Kindness Cure.

Revenge is a motivator. It just depends on what the outcome is, of course.

I was recently asked why I became a psychologist. For a number of reasons I decided to tell the story in third person. Here’s a picture of me to help set the scene. You might think how could this dorky, smiling girl have a dark side? (And what’s with the tie?)

***

It was the first day Tara was placed in the higher-level class for 6th grade math. She was 11 years old. Agonizingly shy in school, Tara’s demeanor was mistaken for a lack of motivation or sometimes, intelligence. She even failed the chorus audition because the judges couldn’t hear her sing, which meant she’d have to suffer through Music Appreciation class in middle school with the boys. So, the recognition of her math ability and subsequent transfer into the smart kids’ class was a big deal.

Up until then, Tara had been routinely visiting with the Barlow Mountain Elementary School guidance counselor, Dr. Moe, because things at home were chaotic. She preferred to stay at home to keep watch on things. She refused to get on the bus. She had to be dragged kicking and screaming from her mother’s car in the morning. She fought tooth and nail to avoid school and saved her temper (AKA her “fighting spirit”) for after school.

This was the behavior that prompted meetings with Dr. Moe starting in the 3rd grade. At the time, Tara was one of the rare students to have divorced parents. In reality, she didn’t know a single kid in her school who had divorced parents. As such, her parents’ split was a source of shame, compounded by the fact of having an exotic mother – both beautiful and with a strange accent – from Germany. When fitting in is all that matters, anything out to the ordinary is a source of harassment. Tara had to deal with the schoolyard “Nazi” taunts before she even knew what the word meant. Her dad? Eventually, he took off and left nothing but debt.

On this particular day she arrived nervously to math class with the smart kids, only to find out there was a test. She didn’t know the material and her new teacher, Mrs. Dulfur, looked at her with utter disdain.

Tara raised her hand and timidly whispered, “I don’t know this math yet. I don’t think I should have to take the test.”

“What did you say?” demanded Mrs. Dulfur.

Tara repeated her request.

“I can’t hear you. What did you say?” egged the teacher.

Tara mustered more courage and repeated her request. Mrs. Dulfur, not more that 4 feet 10 inches and at least 200 pounds, waddled over and pulled the top of Tara’s hair, lifting Tara to her toes.

”Don’t. You. Dare. Ever. Raise. Your. Voice. In this class. Again,” she said through her teeth.

Seconds seemed like hours. Not a sound was heard except the rush of adrenaline in her own body. The other kids looked away uncomfortably. This was not a good start with the smart kids. Not at all. Tara just wanted to disappear. Mrs. Dulfur released her grip. When Tara could feel her feet back on the ground – humiliated and with a burning scalp – she fled the classroom to seek out Dr. Moe.

When he heard the story amidst Tara’s tears of red-hot embarrassment, he said, “Well now, Tara. Are you sure you didn’t raise your voice?”

What?

At that very moment Tara felt that all the adults in her world had utterly failed her: her parents, teachers and helpers. No one really listened. No one believed her. No one showed kindness. And no one seemed to show genuine interest in her feelings.

Instantly, Tara thought, “I can do a better job than you, Dr. Moe.” And in that moment of failed empathy, she decided she was going to be a therapist.

She never went back to see him. Math was forever a burning subject, but Tara charged forth with her secret mission to help misunderstood kids.

* * *

There is a postscript to this story, of course.

After that “I’ll show you” moment, Tara had a true purpose. The path wasn’t easy. Struggle paved the way just about every step. Yet, she never deterred.

A psychoanalyst might say Tara “identified with the aggressor;” a strengths-based therapist might comment that she used her anger productively; a Jungian might suggest the mythic archetypes of hero, rebel or caregiver were ignited; and an energy healer would see this as a moment of clarity and divine life purpose. Whatever the lens, a narrative took hold.

Six years later, as a senior in high school, Tara came face to face with Dr. Moe once more. In an irony only the universe can arrange, Dr. Moe was transferred to the high school. Tara was directed to Dr. Moe for help with college applications. It was with the same feeling of shame – from a history better left forgotten – from which she had to muster courage to speak with him.

When she read his letter of recommendation about her resilience and ability to overcome odds, she was stunned. A new sort of embarrassment took hold, one mixed with recognition, humility and gratitude. Maybe the world was never against her after all.

Yes, it would take another nine years to complete her plan. But a course was set in a single defiant moment.

Every once in a while my kids surprise me with their inherent generosity. I thank god that somehow kindness seeps into the self-centered world of tweens. Recently, on a shopping trip with her girlfriends, my daughter Josie shared an experience that made an impression on her. In the chatty breathless way young teenagers have, she blurted out one, long run-on sentence. The story went like this:

We were on the way to the mall and just at the stoplight we saw this guy in the middle sidewalk begging for change and we all felt bad for him and we talked about how we’re about to go shopping for things we don’t need, yah, so we grabbed our money quickly before the light was going to change, yah, and then we rolled down the car window, and his eyes got all watery and he said, ‘Thank you, girls. God bless. Never never never drop out of school.” And he said it again, about school being so important.

I asked her how it made her feel. She said they felt sad for the young man – she guessed he was in is 20s – and yet happy that they could offer some help. What struck me was her description of looking to his eyes. They could see his emotion. It was a moment of human connection and compassion. So it is with the power of empathy. They could just have easily ignored the young man. Most do. On another day, these girls just may avoid, or not even “see” the next homeless person they walk or drive by.

Children are often told: “Count your blessings.” This can fall flat, feel meaningless, or instill guilt so that kids can’t enjoy anything they do have. (For those of us who grew up with parents from the war generation, we know all too well what this is like). Some kids are thankful that others have it worse than them; that’s more about social comparison than it is about truly being thankful. Gratitude is felt wholeheartedly – from deep within the heart. It allows us to feel appreciative of the small and large blessings, and it shines the light on how we are all connected to one another. I believe that is what struck Josie about the homeless man. His situation could happen to anybody.

I think of this story during this week of collective public gratitude. I have made it a habit in my personal life to count my blessings every day. The science on gratitude affirms that being grateful has so many benefits, to one’s health, to community, to economy.

I’m thankful to the young homeless man who also gave these girls a gift – the recognition of common humanity. We are, after all, givers and receivers.

I take delight in the collective hysteria about the end of the world hype that cycles in from time to time. “The world’s ending today, Mom,” announced Josie a few weeks ago. “Maybe I’ll see you later,” she declared as she bounded up the driveway to catch the bus. Huh. I got a cup of tea, read the daily horoscope in the Globe, and checked my inbox for other insights on the various upcoming endings and beginnings. I love receiving astrological emails even though I pay no mind to most. Inevitably, the messages are about some planetary configuration: “The new Moon is in Sagittarius.” Often there is a mystical call to action: “Set up to 10 intentions before noon Eastern time!” “Thursday is the day to plant seeds.” I take comfort in these cosmic declarations offering hope. Mostly, they remind me to tap into my intuition, slow down, and reflect.

No matter what dates may hold meaning there is upon us an opportunity to push the emotional reset button. How about a story about renewal? That’s what I’ve been asking myself. What’s the story I want to create? Not the new me or new body or fresh start. What’s the story I want my peeps to know about me? How can visualize that me when I stop for a moment, or look up at the sky, or out my kitchen window?

So I got to writing down my own personal intentions. These are reminders for myself – like my guideposts for a balanced life – as antidotes to a wired life. They are the seeds for the story I want to create.

Self-Compassion

I will not be by own worst critic.

I intend to treat myself with the same kindness and respect I bestow on the people I love most in my life.

Walk the Talk

I will be the person I hope my children will grow up to be. I will show kindness, understanding, forgiveness and fortitude.

I’m not always right. I will acknowledge my mistakes and model the courage it takes to make amends and take responsibility.

I will be brave. I will take risks to do things I believe in and am passionate about.

Connection

I will engage fully in the world and with loved ones, because I know in my heart that belonging, loving and feeling loved matter
most.

Gratitude

I will hold the world in wonder just as a child does and embrace the joyful moments as they arrive.

Boditude

I will treat my body as sacred no matter what its shape, size or ability.

I will push aside self-comparisons and model for daughters that the beauty culture does not define who I am or who they are. Fitting in is not important, but believing I am worthy is.

Mindfulness

I intend to be present in my life every day, to notice and be aware of my world and how I engage in it.

I have clarity on my values and my goals. I will live by them.

Patience

I will take time to witness, be present and allow positive growth to unfold.

I will take time to rest and restore.

Indulgence

I will eat chocolate ice cream with reverence and honor the abdundance in life.